


the Denny's Parking Lot

by flightysophist



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, Gen, Restaurants, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-06-30 11:13:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19851985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightysophist/pseuds/flightysophist
Summary: Everyone's favourite cowboy fights a mysterious stranger in a Denny's parking lot.





	the Denny's Parking Lot

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by events imagined while in an actual Denny's.  
> "ooooooh! what if you wrote This Thing?" "what if... you write it?"  
> and so i did. now here it is. =P
> 
> a billion thank yous to timehopper for her billion comments/edits. i loved them all, i promise.  
> a billion more thank yous distributed amongst wordsforthedead, dagon, and keeks1664.  
> without all of yous supporting me, i never wouldve finished this. lol

Jesse McCree downs the rest of his bourbon and reaches for the to-go box on the edge of his table. The waitress had set it down there a couple minutes prior and it was still warm enough for him to smell the spices through the cardboard. He takes a moment to enjoy the contentment this little ritual of his brings.

One classic Santa Fe Skillet, plus another packed to-go for him to eat after his mission tonight. The skillet is actually terrible, but if there's anything McCree knows how to do, it's stick to a theme.

The sound of his spurs make a couple of the other patrons look up from their own meals. It’s a slow night and the place is almost empty, so the sound echoes as he walks from his booth at the back of the restaurant. He waves and calls out a goodnight to his waitress as he steps out the door into the parking lot.

The lot is now shared between the restaurant and a sleek, modern office tower which wasn’t there the last time McCree made this pilgrimage. From the snippets of talk he’d overheard, folks seemed to think the tower gave the area “a bit of class”. Some even feared the restaurant might close down because of it, but everyone knows it takes nothing short of an army to defeat Denny’s.

In retaliation, the diner had renovated half of the building to add its own little sports bar, giving it the illusion of class to an undiscerning eye. The bourbon was still cheap and terrible, but now McCree could drink it with only half as many judging looks from other patrons.

He's walking across the lot to his old motorbike when a fancy-ass white hovercar whips around the corner off of the street, nearly silent for the lack of tires. A collision seems imminent, but his blackwatch-honed reflexes get him safely out of harm's way with a split-second combat roll.

“What in the Sam Hill…” he says aloud, trying to get a good look at the driver, who is about to enter a world of regret.

The cowboy walks up to the car, which had come to a stop a few feet past him, and leans over to give the driver a piece of his mind but pauses when he reaches the window. Up close now, McCree notices the driver's stiff posture, white-knuckled hands, and eyes staring straight ahead the size of dinner plates. More importantly, he notes the other's eyebrows are slightly drawn-together and his jaw clenched.

The poor driver looks terrified.

But going back to dinner plates… McCree looks up and sees his midnight snack (morning breakfast? he’s not sure on the American-European time zone conversion) now splattered across the hood of this previously-pristine hovercar.

The driver visibly flinches as the back passenger door opens and a man steps out. He’s dressed in a black and blue striped vest suit which is… unconventional at best. McCree eyes the extravagant fabric and wonders how he could have nothing better to spend his money on. 

The man carefully walks around the car, observing the mess all over its front. McCree hears the man mutter several words in Japanese, promising his driver a short, bleak future and then calling McCree a clumsy fool, all while still facing the car. He turns and regards McCree in his dusty boots and worn flannel shirt thrown on over a plain black tee with a cold stare.

“Fortunately for you, I am in a hurry,” the man says in English. “Clean this off immediately and I will permit you to leave without an issue.” His voice is deep and serious and he uses the commanding tone of a person who is used to being obeyed. 

Boy, is he about to be disappointed. 

“If you think I’m gonna wipe yer car after yer sorry excuse for a driver almost turned me inta roadkill, we already got an issue,” McCree spits back, hooking his thumbs in his belt as he walks right up to the other man. It is only once McCree is standing chest to chest with the guy that he realizes, despite the man’s shorter height, how broad his shoulders are and how his toned muscles can be seen even through the well-tailored vest and slacks.

With every one of McCree’s steps toward him, the man’s eyes had grown darker. The man all but snarls his next words. “Do not blame my driver for your lack of attention. My men are highly trained. You are stumbling from a diner and smell of alcohol. Do not confuse my attempt at mercy with guilt.”

A quick shift of the other man’s weight is the only warning McCree gets before a palm hits him square in his center of mass, sending him stumbling back a couple feet and almost knocking him on his ass. 

“So that’s how it’s gonna be, huh?” he mutters. 

And then it’s on.

McCree squares up, taking a moment to assess his opponent. When he notices that the cowboy intends to fight back, the man takes his own stance. His body is at an angle to McCree, leading with his right. His hands are flat and held in front of him, but his posture is loose, ready to respond to McCree’s movement. He even makes a taunting gesture with his hand, the bastard.

So McCree obliges, playing into the man’s low opinion of him by throwing an exaggerated swing with his right hand. His opponent takes the bait and grabs for his arm, giving McCree the perfect opportunity to land a solid blow to the man’s kidney with his other fist. 

The man’s eyes bulge in surprise at the hit and McCree quickly twists his right hand over the other man’s, reversing the grip and yanking down. The cowboy then slides his left hand up the man’s chest and grabs a fistfull of his shirt. At the same time, he takes a step in and shifts his weight to pull the other man over his hip and finish the take down.

He feels a pull around his neck as the other man’s body start to fall and--Sweet Baby Jesus weren't his feet on the ground a second ago? The thought is immediately punctuated by his mass colliding with the ground. He spends a split second lying dazed on the ground before he comes to his senses and scrambles to stand up.

His opponent must've used the same momentum from his throw to bring McCree down with him--and twice as hard, it seems, since the other man has already shaken off the throw and is standing over McCree. He doesn’t waste a second before slamming a perfectly polished shoe into McCree’s gut and bringing explosions of stars into McCree’s vision.

McCree is still hunched over, his eyes are watering, and he can feel himself drooling from panting heavily to catch his breath; but apparently that’s not enough to sate his opponent. He feels a foot against the back of his head, forcing his face into the ground. He feels stray gravel on the pavement digging into his cheek as he looks up out of the corner of his eye with the deadliest glare he can muster.

The man simply gazes down at McCree. Then the corner of the sonofabitch’s mouth quirks up in a smirk. “Just like your garbage food… you belong on the ground.” 

And that’s the final straw. McCree sees red.

He surges up and reaches for the man’s leg, hoping to knock his opponent off-balance. "See who belongs on the ground then," he thinks. He’s either too slow or too predictable, though, because the man easily moves his leg out of reach and swings the other into the side of McCree’s head. 

McCree's ears ring and his vision goes blurry for a second, but that doesn’t stop him from taking a couple blind swings at where he thinks the other man is. This earns him nothing but a disinterested grunt and another blow to the head, this time with what feels like a hand.

He can almost see Reyes laughing at him, just like the first few times they spent in the training ring sparring with each other--if you could call his boss kicking the shit out of him “sparring.” Reyes would keep going with no discernable mercy until Jesse tapped out and stopped acting like he knew what the fuck he was doing.

The fact that he's remembering that training gives him a hint that maybe he should smarten up and take this fight more seriously. McCree takes a moment to let his vision come back, wipe the spit and gravel--oh, and blood--from his face, and size-up his opponent again. 

The man is obviously more skilled than McCree had originally thought. At first glance, he had looked like just another clean-cut, too-rich business man, but he’d shown himself to be quick to react and capitalize on his and his opponent’s momentum. McCree didn't much like his chances with more close-combat, but ranged attacks were out of the question--Reyes had ordered him to leave all weapons at the base when he went out for food after the IHOP incident. If only he could get the man in too close for him to properly use any momentous swings...

While McCree looks him over, the man in question is examining his outfit, his stern frown deepening with every second. The cowboy feels an ounce of satisfaction to see that his mysterious opponent’s vest is now crumpled and the white sleeve of his dress shirt is almost entirely scuffed with dirt. He couldn’t remember if those shoes were dark brown before, or if that was from the dirt and McCree’s blood.

“Seems t’me you’ve got more to clean than the hood’a yer car now. I dunno what pricks you were on yer way to meet, but I’d almost pay to see their faces when ya walk in lookin’ like that.” McCree reckons from the look that comment gets him that if the other man was about to walk away from this fight a moment ago, he sure wasn’t now. 

Good.

“My vest alone costs more than someone like you could make in a lifetime. I will accept your payment for it in blood,” the man says as he narrows his eyes and stalks closer to the cowboy.

This time McCree takes the defensive stance, exaggerating his injured state to lure the other man in close. “Come and get it then,” he taunts before turning his head to spit a mouthful of blood on the ground.

As he turns his head, he swears the man’s glare flashes to a smirk. He catches a streak of black and blue as the man jumps on the opening McCree gave him faster than a hen on a junebug. He’s able to block most of the sudden flurry of jabs raining upon him, and he chalks that ability up to that minute he took to collect himself.

McCree takes a second to thank his lucky stars that that hare-brained plan of his worked, then focuses on the rhythm of the man’s blows. He’s got to hand it to the guy, his fury is almost unrelenting, but McCree still manages to land a few blows to the guy’s torso in between blocks.

He feels the punches starting to slow just a fraction, so he makes his move and throws a punch for the man’s face. As expected, the guy hasn’t tired enough to let McCree’s fist land yet and ducks his head out of the way.

The cowboy lets his fist sail past and hooks his hand around the back of the other man’s neck. He yanks down, and this time McCree makes sure to keep his weight low so he doesn't give the other man any opportunity to flip him.

With his hands spread across the man's neck and back, McCree realizes that his take down from earlier only worked because he caught the man by surprise. He can clearly feel the man’s muscles ripple as he moves, and if it weren't for the fact that those muscles were feeding jabs into McCree’s side, it may have left him in a different kind of daze. As such, he gives his head a bit of a shake and decides it's probably best to switch positions.

With a bit of reluctance, he lifts his hands from the other man’s back. As quick as he can, he wraps one hand around his other fist and brings them back down hard on the man's back. He feels the man give a wet cough as his grip loosens from around McCree's middle and he falls to the ground. The man doesn't stay down for even a moment, though, before he rolls away and is back on his feet. He faces McCree again and wipes his mouth.

McCree thinks to himself what a shame it is that he's having such a good fight with a man whose name he doesn't even know.

The other man’s hair, which had previously been precisely slicked and pointed back, is now a wild mess, with several locks falling in front of his face. A few of them sway with the force of his panting. He doesn't look like he had expected this much physical exertion tonight. Then again, neither had McCree. If it had been up to him he would’ve rather had a few more minutes after his meal to let his stomach settle before getting into some roughhousing. 

“Alright, fuck it. Let's finish this,” McCree says, taking a step towards the man, but feels a vibration against his leg and pauses. “Ah, hell…”

His opponent raises his eyebrows as McCree fishes out his communicator--newly cracked, but it's survived rougher fights than this one--and brings it to his ear.

“Dropship takes off in 15 minutes, McCree, and your ass had better be on it,” growls a voice on the other end.

“Yeah, yeah, Reyes. I'm on my way.”

“What's the hold up? Thought you just stepped out for your damned snack.”

“About that... Remember what happened back at the IHOP?”

“Oh, Pendejo, you had better be kiddi--”

“I’ll see ya back at the base.” McCree cuts him off and disconnects, already walking towards his bike.

From behind him he can hear the man scoff. “You are joking. Do not think of me as someone you can just walk away from,” he says, his voice rising as he speaks.

“My apologies, pumpkin,” McCree calls as he throws a leg over his bike, momentarily mourning the to-go box he had planned on stowing in the saddlebag. “But seems you ain't the only one in a hurry.”

His bike roars to life and he tears across the parking lot, past the man yelling what McCree is sure would be obscenities if he could hear them over his engine.

\---

Hanzo Shimada sits at a fancy Italian outdoor patio restaurant, relishing in its pristine atmosphere and gorgeous evening view of the water.

He does not usually stay in town after finishing a job. Any other time he would leave the country immediately with no trace, like a ghost. This last contract, however, took almost every trick up his sleeve to pull off. As such, Hanzo was allowing himself to have this small indulgence as a celebration--his first in quite some time. The target had been high-profile, but it did not matter how much security they had hired. In the end, nothing could have saved him from a Shimada.

Hanzo is roused from his thoughts as a platter gets set before him. He moves to lay his napkin across his lap, but realizes the smell of the dish is a bit off, and he glances up at his meal. Mushrooms, peppers, sausage… potatoes?

“This is not what I ordered,” he says, affronted, raising his head to ignite the waiter with the heat of his glare.

The waiter who stands before him, steadily meeting his gaze, is different from the one who took his order. This one is taller, much more muscular, and he’s only seen sideburns that big once before…

Smoothly, the man he now recognizes from the Denny’s parking lot a couple years ago drawls, “ ‘S a mighty shame. Santa Fe Skillet’s a goddamn classic.”

Then he decks Hanzo in the face.


End file.
